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“Hail Mary,” Roberto said, “full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed ar-ow!”

The commissioner pawed helplessly at the needle sticking from his jacket at the crook of the elbow. Considering Rudy’s general clumsiness with injections, it was a minor miracle that he hit the commissioner’s antecubital vein on the first try. Roberto Pepsical hugged the doctor desperately, a panting bear, but already the deadly potassium was streaming toward the valves of his fat clotty heart.

Within a minute the seizure killed him, mimicking the symptoms of a routine infarction so perfectly that the commissioner’s relatives would never challenge the autopsy.

Rudy removed the spent syringe, retrieved the loose cash from Roberto’s pocket, picked up the black suitcase, and slipped out of the stuffy confessional. The air in the church seemed positively alpine, and he paused to breathe it deeply.

In the back row, an elderly Cuban couple turned at the sound of his footsteps on the terrazzo. Rudy nodded solemnly. He hoped they didn’t notice how badly his legs were shaking. He faced the altar and tried to smile like a man whose soul had been cleansed of all sin.

The old Cuban woman raised a bent finger to her forehead and made the sign of the cross. Rudy worried about Catholic protocol and wondered if he was expected to reply. He didn’t know how to make the sign of the cross, but he put down the suitcase and gave it a gallant try. With a forefinger he touched his brow, his breast, his right shoulder, his left shoulder, his naval, then his brow again.

“Live long and prosper,” he said to the old woman and walked out the doors of the church.

When he got home, Rudy Graveline went upstairs to see Heather Chappell. He sat next to the bed and took her hand. She blinked moistly over the edge of the bandages.

Rudy kissed her knuckles and said, “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know about you,” Heather said, “but I’m feeling a hundred years old.”

“That’s to be expected. You had quite a day.”

“You sure it went okay?”

“Beautifully,” Rudy said.

“The nose, too?”

“A masterpiece.”

“But I don’t remember a thing.”

The reason Heather couldn’t remember the surgery was because there had been no surgery. Rudy had drugged her copiously the night before and kept her drugged the whole day. Heather had lain unconscious for seven hours, whacked out on world-class pharmaceutical narcotics. By the time she awoke, she felt like she’d been sleeping for a month. Her hips, her breasts, her neck, and her nose were all snugly and expertly bandaged, but no scalpel had touched her fine California flesh.

Rudy hoped to persuade Heather that the surgery was a glowing success; the absence of scars, a testament to his wizardry. Obviously he had weeks of bogus post-operative counseling ahead of him.

“Can I see the video?” she asked form the bed.

“Later,” Rudy promised. “When you’re up to snuff.”

He had ordered (by FedEx) a series of surgical training cassettes from a medical school in California. Now it was simply a matter of editing the tapes into a plausible sequence. Gowned, masked, and anesthetized on the operating table, all patients looked pretty much alike to a camera. Meanwhile, all you ever saw of the surgeon was his gloved hands; Heather would never know that the doctor on the videotape was not her lover.

She said, “It’s incredible, Rudolph, but I don’t feel any pain.”

“It’s the medication,” he said. “The first few days, we keep you pretty high.”

Heather giggled. “Eight miles high?”

“Nine,” said Rudy Graveline, “at least.”

He tucked her hand beneath the sheets and picked up something from the bedstand. “Look what I’ve got.”

She squinted through the fuzz of the drugs. “Red and blue and white,” she said dreamily.

“Plane tickets,” Rudy sad. “I’m taking you on a trip.”

“Really?”

“To Costa Rica. The climate is ideal for your recovery.”

“Forhow long?”

Rudy said, “A month or two, maybe longer. As long as it takes, darling.”

“But I’m supposed to do a Password with Jack Klugman.”

“Out of the question,” said Rudy. “You’re in no condition for that type of stress. Now get some sleep.”

“What’s that noise?” she asked, lifting her head.

“The doorbell, sweetheart. Lie still now.”

“Costa Rica,” Heather murmured. “Where’s that, anyhow?”

Rudy kissed her on the forehead and told her he loved her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

Whoever was at the door was punching the button like it was a jukebox. Rudy hurried down the stairs and checked through the glass peephole.

Chemo signaled mirthlessly back at him.

“Shit.” Rudy sighed, thought of his Jaguar, and opened the door.

“Why did you destroy my car?”

“Teach you some manners,” Chemo said. Another bandaged woman stood at his side.

“Maggie?” Rudy Graveline said. “Is that you?”

Chemo led her by the hand into the big house. He found the living room and made himself comfortable in an antique rocking chair. Maggie Gonzalez sat on a white leather sofa. Her eyes, which were Rudy’s only clue to her mood, seemed cold and hostile.

Chemo said, “Getting jerked around is not my favorite thing. I ought to just kill you.”

“What good would that do?” Rudy said. He stepped closer to Maggie and asked, “Who did your face?”

“L eaper,” she said.

“Leonard Leaper? Up in New York? I heard he’s good-rriind ifI look?”

“Yes,” she said, recoiling. “Rogelio, make him get away!”

“ Rogelio?” Rudy looked quizzically at Chemo.

“It’s your fucking fault,” he said. “That’s the name you put on the tickets. Now leave her alone.” Chemo stopped rocking. He eyed Rudy Graveline as if he were a palmetto bug.

The surgeon sat near Maggie on the white leather sofa and said to Chemo, “So how’re the dermabrasions healing?”

Self-consciously the killer’s hand went to his chin. “All of a sudden you’re concerned about my face. Now that you’re afraid.”

“Well, you look good,” Rudy persisted. “Really, it’s a thousand percent improvement.”

“J esusH. Christ.”

Irritably Maggie said, “Let’s get the point, okay? I want to get out of here.”

“The money,” Chemo said to the doctor. “We decided on one million, even.”

“For what!” Rudy was trying to stay cool, but his tone was trenchant.

Chemo started rocking again. “For everything,” he said. “For Maggie’s videotape. For Stranahan. For stopping that TV show about the dead girl. That’s worth a million dollars. In fact, the more I think about it, I’d say it’s worth two.”

Rudy folded his arms and said, “You do everything you just said, and I’ll gladly give you a million dollars. As of now, you get nothing but expenses because you haven’t done a damn thing but stir up trouble.”

“That’s not true,” Maggie snapped.

“We’ve been busy,” Chemo added. “Wegot abig surprise.”

Rudy said, “I’ve got a big surprise, too. A malpractice suit. And guess whose name is on the witness list?”

He jerked an accusing thumb at Maggie, who said, “That’s news to me.”

Rudy went on, “Some fellow named Nordstrom. Lost his eye in some freak accident and now it’s all my fault.”

Maggie said, “I never heard of a Nordstrom.”

“Well, your name is right there in the file. Witness for the plaintiff. Why should I pay you people a dime?”

“All the more reason,” Chemo said. “I believe it’s called hush money.”

“No,” said the doctor, “that’s not the way it goes.”

Chemo stood up from the rocker. He took two large steps across the living room and punched Rudy Graveline solidly in the gut. The doctor collapsed in a gagging heap on the Persian carpet. Chemo turned him over with one foot. Then he cranked up the Weed Whacker.

“Oh God,” cried Rudy, raising his hands to shield his eyes. Quickly Maggie moved out of the way, her facial bandages crinkled in trepidation.

“I got a new battery,” Chemo said. “A Die-Hard. Watch this.”